a lesson in grief
by ohmygodwhy
Summary: you've got pressure dripping off your shoulders. or: sans tries to deal with some things.
1. Chapter 1

.

you lie a lot.

you realize this one day, how much you do it, when you tell papyrus everything's gonna be ok, the human's gonna be a great friend, you'll all make it to the surface— like you have plans for a future that will actually happen.

you. you lie.

it's like- it's sort of a natural reflex. it comes easy (it didn't used to, not really, but you've gotten used to it, grown into it, it's easy now really), and to be fair, it's not like you really have a choice in the matter. you can't go around babbling nonsense about timelines and resets and living the same weeks over and over and over, because. you'd sound crazy, a part of you is pretty sure you _are_ crazy, that maybe this is all in your head, all a big nightmare because that's what it feels like sometimes, when you wake up over and over again to your ceiling in your little dirty room.

so. you lie a lot. you lie to a lot of people.

you lie to papyrus _(i slept like a rock- i'm so good at it, i could do it with my eyes closed; i've gotten a ton of work done today; i'm fine don't worry about it; this is the best spaghetti i've ever had; i'm fine don't worry about it i haven't watched you die over and over again for who knows how long now why would you think that?_ ).

you lie to papyrus a lot.

which really isn't cool. as far as you know pap never lies to you, he's never been very good at lying, and he's cool, super cool, and you love him a lot, and so you have to lie to him about some stuff sometimes.

(you explained it to him once, you think, you tried to explain it to him once: the resets and the saves and how you've seen everything and how you've seen him and frisk and it took too too long to explain and get him to believe you because he thought it was another one of your pranks until your voice cracked; you don't think you could do it again, and you haven't tried it since, and your brother is blissfully unaware and you want so so so badly to keep it that way).

you lie with the grace and ease of a professional—

pap looks at you sometimes when you reply too quickly or avoid an answer and a part of you wonders if maybe you're not as good as you think you are.

(you're not.)

.

.

you're sitting in an armchair with a cold drink in your hand and the sun on your bones.

you're on the surface.

you're asking papyrus for a refill, and he's saying 'no way get it yourself'. so you get up to get it yourself, you're getting up. getting up.

 _Get Up! Sans, C'mon!_

getting up?

blinking awake and shivering, sun replaced with snow, back sore from slumping against the wood of your post, your… post.

in snowdin.

and instead of not getting you a refill, pap is talking about how he's doing Very Important Things and you're being Too Lazy and you're not really listening.

(you thought they'd done well, this time.

the snowball your brother throws at you feels like the frozen cherry on the top of a world full of snow laughing at you.)

—you smile and joke because you aren't sure what day you've been tossed back into. they all blur together, reset after reset, sometimes you're walking down the path to Waterfall in the evening and almost fall down the stairs of your house with the rising sun peeking through the window.

—you don't bother picking things up because they end up right where they were, sitting there and staring up at you: the ketchup stain on the counter pap keeps telling you to clean, your socks on the floor in front of the tv, the trash in your room (the mirror you tossed out the window miraculously stays out the window, hundreds of jagged glass shards littering the snow; it's funny.)

—you don't bother getting a permanent job. you landed one at grillby's one timeline; you slept through the reset; you woke up early to get to your Special Brand New Job and found out you never applied for it (it's _funny,_ you laughed, you played it as a joke about your poor work ethic, you never tried again, you never want to).

—you sell shit like half-assed hotdogs and looks through your telescope cuz you still need the money. you have to pay for the house, and food sometimes.

—the resets reloads saves happen sporadically sometimes, don't happen till the human gets out sometimes.

—they all blur together and you stopped trying to keep track of all the resets rewinds loops a long time ago, thinking about it makes you sick.

you had some things you wanted to do. you don't think you'll get to do them. pap had things he wanted to do. still has things he wants to do. he won't get to do them either, but he doesn't know that, and his enthusiasm cuts you like the shards of that ugly mirror because

he'll never get to do them.

you wait for the world to fall apart.

.

.

you lay on your bed and you want to hate. you want to hate a lot of things.

you want to hate alphys because she did this, she gave the damn flower determination and that was not a good thing to do, she trapped all of you in this hell (who's hell? your hell? are you in hell?) and now your bones are dripping a horrible red that match the gleam of that child's hands.

you want to hate asgore for staying in his castle and ruling over a broken kingdom with a broken heart and a broken will, too caught up in his own moral dilemmas to do anything, really, other than have moral dilemmas about whether or not it is moral to take the souls of human children, and then taking the souls of human children anyways. and if the queen could see what a rough time he was having maybe she'd be a little more sympathetic.

and you want to hate mettaton for being so so so so loud and everywhere and playing the same episodes every timeline and papyrus loves watching the cooking one and you've seen it a thousand times maybe, you lost count, you can practically recite every word every damn facial expression or laugh or pose and the robot is so loud about it and the creaking of metal grates against your skull.

and you want to hate frisk for all the resets the reloads the replays the mercies and the fights and the spares and all the dust they leave behind and all the sunsets you've gotten the tiniest taste of before everything rewinds rewinds rewinds.

—you want to hate them for murdering your brother over and over and over and you find that red in the snow and sometimes you see his skull being crushed under their foot; you want to hate them for murdering everyone- undyne and papyrus and alphys and the spider lady and papyrus and mettaton and papyrus- and then smiling and making friends with everyone when the next reset happens.

—you want to hate them for that matching shade of red all up their hands and arms and dribbling on their shirt and down your spine and clashing with the blue blue of your eye because you have killed so many times and they have killed so many times and you have killed each other so many times.

and you want to hate papyrus for dyi— but no, you don't want that, you'd never want that, you could never hate papyrus you love him he's your brother your super cool bro who doesn't hate anyone, your brother you don't deserve who you can never save who you disappoint who you annoy who you'll never be able to save because you can't SAVE.

you want to hate so much and so many but you can't, not really.

you don't think you have it in you to hate anymore.

(you're bitter, you're very bitter, and sort of hollow-ish and you know that nothing you do or anyone does matters and you wake up screaming in the middle of the night and you're angry, you're so angry at the knife and the flower and your damn ceiling you open your eyes to every reset, but you can't hate because you don't have any room for it, and you have too much room).

(you think maybe you hated in the beginning, but that was. that was so long ago.)

you lay on your bed and wait for the world to fall apart.

.

.

you sit on the hard wooden barstool and you think that grillby is a Pretty Nice Guy.

you think that grillby's is a pretty nice place with pretty nice people that know your name and say hi every time you walk in and seem concerned when you don't come around at your usual time or something.

you think grillby's a pretty good guy, pretty chill for someone so _hot-headed_ (it's funny: he's fire, he's burning, combusting all the time and yet he's the least _fiery_ person you know). and sometimes you wander in a little bit later than usual or when the sun is setting and order a drink because you're full grown bones and you can do what you want.

one drink turns to two three four— you have a low alcohol tolerance (it goes _right through you,_ it's funny), so you get a little a little drunk and grillby tells you in his soft crackling voice that _we've been closed for an hour_ when you look up long enough to ask where everyone is.

and he knows you pretty well, as well as a casual friend could know a casual friend or an owner could know a regular or a fire could know some bones. so when he strolls around the bar and sits next to you and tells you that you can vent if you want to, that he's here and he'll listen because you are his favorite regular after all and he cares about you and he knows you well enough to know that something is wrong

(something something everything)

you give in, and you talk.

(you wonder, if you started crying, if a tear fell on his arm, would it put out a bit of the flame or would it evaporate into steam? you wonder what would happen if he grabbed your arm, if he could burn through you, if you would turn to charcoal here instead of dust there and what difference it would make, if you remained a pile of charcoal after the next reset.)

 _it doesn't matter,_ you tell him, stupid drunken babbling,

 _everything's pointless anyways, nothing you do will ever change anything,_

 _we're stuck in a timeless hell and everything you do is pointless, and it's all so_ ** _fucked up—_**

 _it's_ ** _hilarious._**

(and it doesn't matter what you say. because he won't remember it soon.)

he's a really good listener.

when you're done, you feel a pat on your shoulder and see a phone swallowed up by his flaming hand and _no no no nono don't call pap not right now goddammit not right now_ —

but pap does come, because he's actually a good brother, a better brother than you, he's not useless he's Great. he scoops you up in his arms and he's so tall now and you feel like a child held against him, those bones that crumble to dust too easily too quickly too many times and shit: you're crying this time. he shifts you in his arms and holds you a little tighter and doesn't ask questions and something inside of you shatters just a little bit more.

pap will maybe make you talk about it tomorrow and you won't know what to say because anything you say won't make sense. and all of this will be forgotten. and papyrus will die and everything—

Everything.

Everything.

—is so fucking _pointless._

.

.

.

[you give up.]

.

.

.

gaster is somewhere, writhing around in the dark.

with no body, probably, no physical form. completely forgotten, erased, scattered across time and space.

and you

are the only one who seems to remember?

(bits and pieces. white white coats and hands speaking where mouths could not. eyes melting into cracks along a broken horrible face. 1 hp.)

(1 hp. 1 defense. 1 attack. the easiest opponent. you need to be better.)

gaster is somewhere in the dark floating through nothing and the world keeps on turning without him; everything functions fine without him; the world does not need him.

you wonder, if you disappeared, faded, would you be glossed over and forgotten too?

you think yes.

you know yes.

you wonder what would happen if you tried.

you think maybe gaster wonders too.

(it's rude to talk about someone while they're listening.)

.

.

you wait for the world to fall apart.

the world falls apart.

you give up.

.

.

night terrors mix with nightmares mix with twisted timelines and blur together in a rush of terror and ten flavors of guilt that rips from your throat and your eye in the middle of the night, horrible horrible sounds and lucid pictures.

the crack of magic and your voice breaking and your brother calling your name somewhere far far away—

(not really though, he's dead, he died, you saw, it was your fault you _saw it's your fault it's all your fault failure disappointment you can't change anything_ ** _your fault_** _)._

—someone grabbing your arms from where they're clutching your skull, grasping at bone and shaking shivering you can't do this anymore.

your brother's voice, clearer this time, right there, hands that are his shaking against your wrists. you jerk awake (awake? real or not real you can't tell right now it's hilarious).

 _I'm right here,_ he says, _I'm right here,_ and he is, he's right there. you try to catch your breath and shove your heart back down your throat and bury your sobs in your brother's shirt.

(you are weak. you are so weak. you are weak and broken and you want to rip yourself apart.)

he's right there. everything's fine.

he's _right there_ and then he's not, he's dust again,

scattered in the snow or on the floor of your house or your hands— two three four five twenty fifty sixty times

he's right there and he's not and when you wake up screaming, eyes flashing, he's right there, and it all happens again and you're so tired.

you've done everything so many times and everything's so _tired._

you've done everything so many times.

you wait for the world to fall apart.

.

.

you shake the kid's hand.

you don't know how their hands are clean, or how your bony hands are white, because you're both so red and dusty, so so red and dusty—

pap wraps the kid up in a hug and has no idea what those tiny hands could do, have done, will do

—and you're drowning in each other's sins.

.

.

you lie a lot.

you realize this again, one day, when you tell papyrus everything's gonna be ok, the human's gonna be a great friend, you'll all make it to the surface.

like you have plans for a future that will actually happen.

.

.


	2. Chapter 2

.

.

the first word you would use to describe the surface is: vast.

the second might be: beautiful.

the third would probably be: terrifying.

because.

it's not just the surface this time, it's not the one you're used to, the one where you explore for a few days a week maybe never for long and then blink yourself back underground— the normal way, the way you've done it a thousand times like clockwork over and over and.

it's not.

they're not.

it's not just the surface, it's the surface, the whole thing—

no more resets, frisk says to you in a way that is meant to be quiet and reassuring but just makes your whole body tense and tighten like a bow string, i'm done, asriel's here, i've saved everyone, no more resets this is it no more resets it's over

—the whole thing and time stretching out in front of you.

you don't know: what is out there, who is out there, if it's safe, what will happen; you don't know what will happen. you've spent so long memorizing every little thing like picture perfect pieces in one of pap's puzzles, and suddenly you know nothing, nothing. and it—

it terrifies you. it's terrifying. time and space and no more resets.

(you should be happy- no more resets, no more scarves in the snow or knives in your ribs, no more resets you're free wow free- but you're not quite as happy as you think you should be, as everyone else is, as papyrus is.)

you hide your shaking hands in the sleeves of your too-big jacket.

you all step out- really step out, for good, forever- into the world.

you are terrified.

.

.

everyone is so grateful to frisk for bringing them all to the surface. but it's- it's different for you.

you are grateful, have been grateful, were overjoyed when you saw the actual real stars for the first time. real stars, and space and stuff.

it was great.

but it's different now. it's been a long time, and no time at all; too many things happened and nothing— none of it matters anymore, nothing you've done matters because that's not what happened, not really, right?

(you never could change things. barely did anything this run-through other than the handshake thing and the puzzles thing and the dinner thing and the 'congratulations, you didn't kill anyone this time, wow' thing— like it's an accomplishment, like not killing anyone is such a difficult thing, such an accomplishment (is it an accomplishment? is anything? what counts as an accomplishment anymore?), such a great completed task.

you barely did anything this time, and. things turned out great— perfect, even.

—how many runs did it take to get this 'perfect' ending? you lost count around fifty a long time ago because fifty was too many times wasn't it so you let the numbers slip away; it's so damn funny—

you never could change anything.)

everyone is so grateful, and no one knows what you did. how much you tried. how long you tried. how hard you tried for nothing, and you will never tell them and neither will frisk, because what is the point of ruining all the happy in this happy ending?

everyone is so grateful.

you're just glad it's over, but still.

but still.

but still, frisk could change their mind. something could happen. you could wake up back underground.

so still.

you are terrified.

.

.

the night terrors; nightmares; twisted timelines don't slip from your skull onto the floor of the underground when you leave, like they should, like you want.

they stick around just because they can, rolling around in your head and out of your eye sockets and your mouth like usual- it's so so funny, you got out but you didn't really leave, did you?

you (and pap and frisk and alphys and undyne and tori and asgore- and all that emotional tension) are all piled into one rented house for the first little while. none of you have human money yet. this is all you can afford.

you cannot wake up screaming with glowing eyes and panic panic panic in this house. you don't want attention. questions. you can't.

you can't.

so you stumble outside at three-something in some-morning to breathe, breathe, breathe that crisp surface air and look at all those damn endless stars in the sky.

—it takes you four minutes of breathe breathe breathing before you notice frisk standing there, leaning on the balcony rail, a few feet away from you.

—you say nothing; they say nothing.

—you look at the stars together.

—nightmares? they say eventually, small, quiet, and …yeah, you reply eventually, small, quiet, embarrassed sort of (which you shouldn't be; you know each other too deeply at this point to be embarrassed).

—i won't reset this time, they say again, i promise.

—i sure hope so, you say.

—half of these night things have something to do with them, with frisk. and you know half of theirs are about them-self too. you think that's a cruel kind of irony.

it's so twistedly funny you can't laugh.

you don't think you want to anyways.

.

.

you get a series of odd jobs here and there along the way.

it's almost familiar, this 'take it as it comes' type of work. you've had a bit too much routine in your life.

this? this works for you.

really.

selling 'One Of A Kind Underground Monster Hotdogs', which invoke a mixture of interest and disgust in these too-similar humans (at least you monsters look different, at least you can tell each other apart— you laugh; these weak-ish look-a-likes killed the prince and trapped you all underground, it's hilarious).

—it gets you looks similar to the ones you get when you and papyrus walk down the streets and explore new shops: some discomfort, some whispers, no eye contact, stepping out of your way, trying not to touch you, some curiosity. like they're afraid you might kill them if they get too close or something.

(a part of you thinks: i could, i could destroy you without breaking a sweat.)

(another part of you thinks: chill.)

(another part thinks: you spent too long killing and look what it's done to you. murderer.)

part-time janitor at the school frisk goes to now (not toriel's; she's still working on getting it started), which too invokes those stares, those looks. from kids and teachers. and parents. everyone.

this is the surface you all fought so hard to make it to?

it makes you want to dig a hole back to your home in snowdin.

.

.

you want to tell papyrus, you really do. frisk wants you to tell papyrus, so you do too. really, you do. you want to tell him.

(you don't want to tell him.)

(you really don't. really.)

(you don't think you know what you want.)

.

.

you blink awake to the ceiling of your dirty little room in snowdin.

you blink. you blink. you stare at that ceiling until it sinks in.

no.

you're shooting out of bed, running to the window, snow, just snow and the glass on the ground.

no no nono no no.

you give up.

you give up you give up you give up you give up it was over you can't not again you can't you cry you give up you give up you—

you blink awake to the folds of pap's oversized t-shirt he sleeps in, all shaking hands on your back and whispers and it's okay 's just like old times and shit thank god.

really had you going for a second there.

no more resets, frisk said.

you still can't really believe it yet.

.

.

you find out that middle schoolers? are assholes. middle schoolers suck.

a kid saves an entire civilization, beats a giant evil flower thing, helps sort things out between the humans and monsters who first approached, and they still get trash talked?

assholes.

you hear them talking one day, taunting another day, shouting another day.

and. and.

and you.

(they called toriel old and ugly and they called you brother stupid and they called you a smiley weirdo and they called frisk a freak and they called undyne and alphys things you don't want to repeat ever and they called your brother stupid, an idiot, and you—)

and you're angry, shit, you're angry.

you haven't been this angry in a long long time, not since the beginning, not since—

you're angry.

you think your fingers might splinter and break with how tightly your fists are curled, shaking, angry, so damn angry at these little goddamn kids who think they know anything about any of you, who think they have the fucking right.

(you want to de— you want to. you want. you can't.)

you tell toriel. frisk moves schools.

you all move towns actually.

(they ask if you're okay with it, if you'll be able to find any other jobs, if you'll miss the hotdog street corner.

you say nah, you won't miss a thing about this town. there's nothing for you here.)

.

.

you want to tell papyrus.

you want to explain. now that it's over, you think he deserves an actual explanation of all the nightmaresterrorstimelines he's helped you through, and all the secrets and all the lies— god, the lies, you're horrible.

frisk thinks you should tell him too. so.

so if you have them back you up on this ridiculous fucked up story, maybe he'll believe you (you told him once, remember? a long time ago?)

so.

so you try. you stumble around your words because it's permanent this time, he won't forget this time, you have one shot this time.

and when you get to the— i've watched you die over and over again so many times and i couldn't do a thing about it wow don't i suck isn't it so funny— part, he sort of. wraps his arms around you? and frisk has to finish the story in their soft little voice, because papyrus is sort of shaking? pulling you tighter and tighter and it's different, this time, from the post-nightmare hugs or the happy hugs, something very very soft and hard and gentle and tight and.

yeah.

why didn't you tell me? he asks in this little broken voice, and he's crying, probably, you can't see his face from this angle, and you are the one who made him cry, you're horrible.

i tried to, you say, repeat like a shaky mantra, i tried to i tried but you forgot and i couldn't keep doing it i'm sorry.

frisk wraps their arms around your rib cage and buries their head in your side and pap rests his head on the top of yours and you stay like that for a very long time.

he knows and you are…

terrified?

he knows, and you…

are relieved.

.

.

you're walking frisk home from school. from toriel's school.

they won first place in the science fair (asked for your help— you helped them build a one of a kind self-sustaining tornado), and you feel that twinge of affection, the one usually reserved for pap.

toriel bakes a pie in celebration. everyone comes over for dinner. and for the first time in what feels like decades and decades, and even though you are still vaguely anxious sometimes, when frisk helps out in the kitchen and picks up a knife and you see flashes flashes (the fear, it's built in at this point, and they always put it down when they notice you),

you feel.

you feel content.

.

.

the first word you would use to describe the surface is: vast.

the second might be: starry. pretty.

the third would probably be: terrifying.

because.

you are free.

but you're not.

you wonder if you'll spend the rest of your life waiting with baited breath for another reset.

you hope not. you hope you'll get your mind out of the past and slam dunk it into the present, where it's free, where there are no more resets.

not for the first time, you wish you could forget.

but you are free, and you step out into the world.

and you're terrified.

(too terrified to be more than a little bit hopeful.)

.

you don't really know how to be free.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

you blink awake to the ceiling of your dirty little room in snowdin.

.


End file.
